


Sherlock Haz a Sad and John Saves the Day

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Burrito, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John is a Saint, Kissing, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sushi, crackish, damaged reputation, no smut sorry, snit fit, tea and sandwiches, whatever just read the damned thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:29:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Title pretty much says it all. Sherlock's reputation is on the line and John must make it right for the Great Detective.





	Sherlock Haz a Sad and John Saves the Day

John glanced from his comfortable chair by the fire to take in the brooding cloud of sadness hovering over the couch. Upon entering the room from work, he had divested himself of his jacket and bag, gratefully plopped himself down, and picked up the paper without even _noticing_ the long body, fetally curled up and wrapped in a blue silk dressing gown, face toward the wall; silent, unmoving, unresponsive. John’s mouth twitched.

 

_Not good…_

 

“Sherlock?” he ventured, his voice loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to be startling.

 

No response. _Hmph_ …

 

Sherlock?” Again, his tone was carefully modulated, but with a bit more _oomph_ this time.

 

A twitch of shoulders, as if burrowing down deeper into a hole. _Ohhkayy…_

 

“ _SHERLOCK!”_

 

“ _ **WHAT!!!???”**_

 

_Hmmm. Full-on snit._ _This requires a different approach._

 

“What’s wrong, love?” Softer, more gentle tone.

 

Full-body curling into itself. “Nothing.”

 

_Worse than I thought. Sherlock saying ‘nothing’ is usually an understatement of impending disaster._

 

John sighed to himself and closed the paper before folding it neatly on the arm of his chair and levering himself out of it. After the day he’d had, all he’d wanted to do was sit down and spend a quiet evening with his favorite person in the whole world. Instead, he uncovered the not-so-elusive Snitmonster lurking in his parlor. He ambled over to the couch to peer down at Sherlock, who hastily buried his face into the pillow and hunched his shoulders even more deeply to shield himself from any outside intrusion.

 

John pursed his lips and nodded. He was a physician and could, therefore, recognize a situational depression when he saw one, but _this_ was even more involved. _Something_ had inspired it, and it was now incumbent upon him to play the detective and find out what before he could coax his Snitmonster into sociability again.

 

He turned and headed toward the bedroom. On his way, he almost bumped into Mrs. Hudson, who had mounted the stairs with a tray bearing a steeping pot of tea and two china cups. “Oh, John, I thought I heard you come in, so I brought up a cuppa for you and Sherlock...”

 

John hitched his head toward the couch and Mrs. Hudson looked over and nodded. “He’s been like that most of the afternoon, ever since he came in from Scotland Yard. He had a case to discuss with that nice Inspector Lestrade, and he was fine when he left, but, afterwards, he returned home in a huff, slammed the front door so hard it rattled the glass, and stomped up the stairs. Haven’t heard from him since.” She arranged the tray on the miraculously-clean kitchen table and began to pour. “I can usually hear him moving about up here, but, today, not a whisper.” She shook her head.

 

John reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “Mrs. Hudson, would you be so good as to make some of your cucumber sandwiches? And, by any chance, do you have any biscuits lying about?”

 

Mrs. Hudson brightened. “Why, yes, I do! I even have some of those treats he likes so much...”

 

“Tim Tamms.”

 

“Yes! I’ll be glad to make you those sandwiches, too. If you think it will help.”

 

Nod. “Yes. He _loves_ your sandwiches, and the treats will improve his spirit, I think.” He glanced over at the blue mass on the couch, which had still not reacted to their voices. “He’s in deep this time. I’ll have to work on him. Just leave everything on the table if you would, please.”

 

With an encouraging smile, Mrs. Hudson nodded and retreated downstairs while John went into the bedroom— _their_ bedroom—and retrieved a comforter from the bed. They had had to layer covers lately due to the unusually cold weather, so he took the smaller one, not the queen-sized one Sherlock usually kept on the bed. He would have lost the man in that one.

 

Returning to the parlor, John gently unfurled the comforter over the recumbent blue bundle of anti-joy on the couch. It barely moved as the coverlet settled about him except that strong hands grasped one section of it and pulled it tightly over its face. With a smirk and a chuckle of determination, John plopped down on top of the form and tightly surrounded it with his arms and legs while resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

The bundle moved and squirmed, stretching out its legs a bit while mumbling something in an irritable tone. It tried to buck John off, without success. John could be quite tenacious, once provoked. More mumbling ensued.

 

“Can’t hear you, not with your head under the blankets,” John pointed out, reasonably.

 

More agitated mumbling, with a much clearer “Get off!” attached to it.

 

Shaking his head, John retorted, “No. You are depressed and I am your doctor and I will treat you as I see fit.”

 

The comforter suddenly flew off Sherlock’s face and he snarled, “What sort of half-arsed, ill-considered treatment is this? Trying to crush me to death under your not-inconsiderable weight and smother me with blankets?” He threw the comforter back over his head again without awaiting an answer.

 

John repositioned himself so that his extremities were tucking the comforter around Sherlock. “I am creating an anti-depression sushi roll.”

 

The form beneath him stopped struggling. A silver-gray eye peeped out from the rolls of fabric surrounding his head. “A sushi roll,” he said, as if he was certain the speaker was insane.

 

“Yup. I am wrapping you up so you feel warm and cared for. Once that has occurred, I will feed you tea and sandwiches until you are properly fed and hydrated, at which time we will watch a silly movie until you have regained your normal sensibilities.”

 

“Impossible,” the lump growled before the eye retreated again. “I will _never_ recover. You may as well just bury me in this thing and be done with it.” John could feel the form beneath him re-huff.

 

“Are you warm enough, Sherlock?” he asked, solicitously.

 

“Yes,” the form responded, reluctantly. “I am quite toasty in here. Thank you.”

 

_Ah, a return of some slight degree of civility. Good. Progress._

 

“Do you feel loved and cared for?” he continued, solicitously.

 

Silence. _Hmmm…_

 

“What can I do to make you feel like I love you and care about your well-being, love?” he reiterated. His voice was soft and one hand reached out to stroke the mass of dark curls that had escaped the top of the comforter.

 

A little wiggle revealed the inner struggle beneath the blanket. A muffled voice then said, “This.”

 

John kissed the shoulder beneath his chin. The form wiggled again. “Again.”

 

Another kiss followed. The form settled.

 

“Better?”

 

A subterranean nod. “Better.”

 

A movement in the kitchen caught his attention. Mrs. Hudson, true to her word, had brought up some sandwiches and treats and laid them on the table. She put up a finger to her lips and smiled. John smiled back and nodded in thanks. The landlady then withdrew from the flat, descending the stairs as quietly as she had mounted them.

 

“Would you like some cucumber sandwiches, love?”

 

“Mmmmph.” Another wiggle, this one of possible anticipation.

 

“And, maybe, some tea and Tim Tamms?” he teased.

 

Definite interest this time, as the comforter over his face was peeled down and a blinking Sherlock emerged. “Tim Tamms, you said?”

 

John nodded. “But only after the sandwiches and tea, agreed?” He fixed his gaze on Sherlock, who nodded. “All right, then,” he said as he shifted his weight off his flatmate, allowing him to sit upright on the couch. Sherlock wrapped himself tightly in the comforter, legs tucked up and head drooping.

 

John couldn’t help but observe. _Still in a mood. Maybe some food will help. And some tea._

 

He brought the tray with the tea cups and sandwiches over and set them on the table in front of Sherlock. He barely looked up, choosing, instead, to wrap the comforter over the top of his head.

 

John pressed his lips together in frustration.  _Well, I signed on for this. I can’t say it’s a surprise now._ He sat down beside the fabric-and-batting shrouded figure and, with some delicacy, picked up one of the slices of sandwich and presented it to Sherlock, who sniffed at it before taking a tentative nibble. 

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s your favorite, Sherlock. Eat!” John finally growled.

 

To his surprise, he didn’t receive a death-glare in response. Sherlock simply took a bigger bite and chewed lifelessly. He repeated this action again and, after some urging, extracted one hand from his cocoon to hold the slice and feed himself. He seemed to show a bit more life after the first slice, even seeking out a second for himself.

 

John observed as he sipped his tea. Food was always good for elevating one’s mood, but there was something deeper about this one. Something had happened or been said at Scotland Yard that had set him off.  _The thing that so many people don’t understand about genius is that it is fragile. The Yarders think they can bait him with impunity, but they can’t. Look at Eurus. Brilliant beyond belief, but broken in mind. That could happen to Sherlock if…_

 

He shook his head to shake the thought loose. No need for falling into the same trap to which Sherlock had succumbed. He had to be his saviour, not his cellmate.

 

He reached up to brush some unruly curls away from Sherlock’s forehead. “You need a haircut again.”

 

“No point,” Sherlock intoned lifelessly. “No one would care.”

 

“ _I_ care. Am I no one?” John huffed in response.

 

“You love me without rational cause. It’s one of your few flaws.” There was a self-deprecatingly humorous twitch to the lips. His eyes slid sideways to see if John had laughed, which he had.

 

“What am I going to do with you, Sherlock?” he chuckled affectionately, shaking his head.

 

That high-boned face went flat again. “Nothing. I am beyond salvation. I have no reason to continue.”

 

John closed his eyes to keep from rolling them.  _God, he can be so fucking melodramatic sometimes._ He offered the detective some tea, which was gracefully accepted. While he sipped, John pondered his next course of action.  _Perhaps the straightforward approach is the best._

 

“Okay, what happened?” he asked, his voice devoid of inflection.

 

Full lips flat-lined obstinately.

 

John sighed. He moved himself on the couch so that his back was against the arm and opened his legs, urging Sherlock to sit back between them. He seemed reluctant, so John proved, once again, that he had been in the army and practically dragged Sherlock’s slender form into place before wrapping his arms around the taller man’s shoulders and clamping his thighs around Sherlock’s hips, virtually locking him in place. Before Sherlock could resist, John planted a kiss on the back of Sherlock’s head. “Sit back and relax, Sherlock,” John all-but-cooed, and Sherlock settled, resting his head on John’s good shoulder.

 

“Better?” he asked, nuzzling the shampoo-scented dark hair.

 

“Better,” Sherlock acknowledged grudgingly. For his cooperation, John fed him a Tim Tamm, which he chomped on greedily. “I love these things.”

 

“I know,” John nodded. He tightened his arms and Sherlock sighed, his body loosening a bit.

 

They sat together in silence, the only sound that of Sherlock stealing another treat and gobbling it down. John chuckled to himself but it was felt by Sherlock.

 

“I love you, you know,” John murmured affectionately.

 

“I’ll never understand why,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m not worthy of you.”

 

“More like the other way around,” John rebutted. “You’re a proper genius, whereas I...”

 

“YOU...are the most incredible, amazing man imaginable,” Sherlock finished for him. “After so many years of acquaintance, I am _still_ constantly surprised by you.” He paused, then finished, softly, “You have no idea how important that is to me.”

 

John nuzzled the side of Sherlock’s head and kissed him. Sherlock relaxed even more, practically melting against his partner.

 

“Now, tell me what happened,” John whispered into his ear.

 

A deep sigh signaled surrender. “I got it wrong,” he struggled out.

 

“What?”

 

“A case. The solution. I got it wrong.” 

 

John could feel the sulk returning, so he countered with nuzzles, hugs, and kisses as he urged Sherlock to continue.

 

He did, reluctantly. “The case of the murdered fish-monger. I misread the evidence and, therefore, came to an erroneous conclusion. One of the new detectives under Lestrade solved the case and brought in the real culprit.” His body let loose all at once and just sagged in defeat. “They...laughed.”

 

“Who?” As if he needed to ask.

 

“The Yarders. The detectives, the forensic techs...everyone was laughing behind their hands at me as I left. Especially the fellow who brought in the murderer. The smug look on his face...” He shuddered. “I can’t show my face there again until I have redeemed myself, and I have no idea how to do that if I don’t return there again.”

 

“Lestrade can deliver cases...”

 

“But I will still have to go to the crime scene and be seen by all those people, the ones who laughed.” He turned his head slightly, as if to look at John, who was visible only peripherally to him. “What am I to do, John? I’m a failure, a disgrace...”

 

John hugged him tightly with all his appendages. “Oh, God, no, Sherlock! You are the very opposite of a failure! Everyone makes mistakes!”

 

A shake of curls. “Not everyone. Not _me_. Not on a case, John. That’s how people lose faith in you.”

 

A light step at the threshold signaled Mrs. Hudson bearing the paper. She tip-toed over, gently laid the paper on the table, and tip-toed back out again. John grinned.  _Still the dancer, that one…_

 

John caught the headline and froze. It read, in big letters, “Fishmonger killer caught by NSY.” In a sub-headline, it read, “Hatman fails to solve case!” He gasped involuntarily, causing Sherlock to look in his direction. John brushed the paper off the table, but not before Sherlock had caught the headlines with those all-seeing quicksilver eyes.

 

“Fucking hell!” he howled as he bolted upright and rolled off the couch and onto his hands and knees, reaching for the rumpled papers. He stared the front page as if it were a cobra, ready to strike. “I’m done. My God, I’m done.” He threw the sheets away and fell, full-length, onto the floor, pulling the comforter around himself again. 

 

_Shit, shit, and shit._ John had  _almost_ had him back. He looked down at the rangy detective, now a burrito of sadness and anger lying on the floor beside him.  _What to do now?_

 

A notion struck him, suddenly. He leaned down and asked, “Did you say there was a new detective at the Yard?’

 

Part of the burrito nodded.

 

“Is he very popular?”

 

Again, a burrito nod.

 

“Anyone you know from before?”

 

A muffled shake of the head(?).

 

“Hmmm….” 

 

John crawled over the six-foot worm on the floor and trotted upstairs to his own room. He had some research to do.

 

Once there, he made a call to NSY, requesting Lestrade. He gave his name, as requested, and he could hear some muffled snippets of conversation and a few giggles, not all feminine, before he was put through. It was enough to make him grind his teeth. He was sure that background noise was at his partner’s expense and he wasn’t going to have that.

 

“Lestrade here,” came the familiar, gruff voice.

 

“Greg, John Watson here.”

 

“John! Not often I hear from you. It’s usually Sherlock who calls. So, what can I do for you today?”

 

John steeled himself. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. “You’ve seen the paper?”

 

All the exuberance went out of Lestrade’s voice. “Yeah, I did. Lousy piece of axwork on Sherlock, I noticed. I mean...he was  _close_ , but there was this  _one_ mistake...”

 

“What was it?” John demanded, his voice hard.

 

Lestrade must have noticed. “John, is something wrong?”

 

John nodded as he said, “Yeah, you might say that. Sherlock is in a right state downstairs on the parlor floor, saying he’s a failure and a disgrace because he misread the evidence, and THEN he saw the headlines...”

 

“Aw, Jesus,” Lestrade replied in dismay. 

 

“He doesn’t want to return to the Yard, he doesn’t want to go to crime scenes...”

 

“He’s embarrassed,” Lestrade summed up.

 

John rolled his eyes. “More than that. Try humiliated, depressed, angry, self-flagellating...”

 

“Uh, yeah, I get your drift. So, how can I help get our resident genius back to work?”

 

John hesitated before continuing. “This new guy...”

 

“Jacoby.”

 

“Jacoby. Okay, so he’s new to the department?”

 

“Actually, no. He was a forensics man before he worked his way up. Went to the academy, then worked the beat for a bit before applying to be a detective. Seemed a natural choice for him. He knew how to read a crime scene better than most. I guess that’s why he’s been such a stellar addition to our force. He’s solved some crimes the older detectives couldn’t. Hasn’t gained him many fans in the department, though.”

 

“ _Re-eally_?” John asked, appraisingly. He stroked his chin with his other hand. “This is very… interesting, Greg.”

 

“ _What_ is?” Lestrade prodded. “Come on, John. I can hear it in your voice. You’ve got some idea...”

 

“Greg, could you send me Jacoby’s file on the case?”

 

“I sent one to Sherlock earlier...”

 

“No, not _that_ one,” John rapped out, impatiently. “I mean the file _as it now exists_ , not from before.”

 

Lestrade stammered, “Uh, okay, yeah, I can do that, John. If you think it will help...”

 

“I think it will do a world of good,” John replied with a smirk.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Sherlock, read this,” John said, kneeling at the head of comforter-enshrouded detective on the floor.

 

“I’ve read enough for one day,” a muffled, mournful voice leaked out of the end. “Just leave me alone and let me rot on the floor.”

 

“Jesus God, you are such a fucking drama queen sometimes!” John snapped. He opened the end of the Burrito of Sad and stuck the papers in front of Sherlock’s face. “Read it!”

 

Silver eyes blinked annoyedly. “Why? I’ve already read it...”

 

“Not this version, you haven’t!” John retorted. He was pleased to see a sudden glint in those steely eyes.

 

The Burrito sat up and a slender hand accepted the papers. John held his breath as Sherlock scanned the relevant information, that incredible mind reviewing and re-assembling the pieces of the case until…

 

“THIS!” he yelped. A long finger poked at a page. “HERE. This wasn’t in the original case file! It’s a set of forensic findings that would have changed my entire conclusion, if I had seen it!” Sherlock flung back his hood and glared at John with fiery eyes. “I was set up to fail, John! If I had seen _this_ file...”

 

John grinned. The old Sherlock was back.  _His_ Sherlock.

 

“I need to discuss this with Inspector Lestrade...”

 

“Greg.”

 

Eyeroll. “Whatever. I need answers!” He threw off the comforter and shot into the bedroom, emerging mere minutes later in his business attire.

 

“Shall I call him?” John teased.

 

“No need. I have him on speed dial, so I called as I changed. This cannot go unchallenged, John!” Sherlock growled as he paced around the front room. “I will _not_ allow someone to sully our reputations like this!”

 

Blond eyebrows shot skyward. “OUR reputation s ?  _You’re_ the one who was targeted!”

 

Sherlock stopped and turned his gaze upon John. His eyes softened immediately. “I say ‘we’ because we are  _partners_ , John, in every sense of the word.  _Your_ reputation would be tarnished by association with  _me_ .  _I_ don’t get work,  _you_ don’t get work.”

 

John huffed. “Yeah, but I still have my medical practice.”

 

Sherlock... _smiled_ . “True, but it bores you to  _tears_ , you know that. Without The Work...”

 

Both John’s hands went up in good-natured surrender. “I give up! You’re right, as always, Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock grinned. “And, besides that, your patients might began to question your intelligence because you’re involved with an idiot like  _me_ ...”

 

John smirked back at him. “They already do, love. They already do. I’m just  _that_ good a doctor.”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“What do you mean, this wasn’t there before?” Lestrade blustered.

 

“Read this one, then compare the two,” Sherlock commanded, handing both files to Lestrade. He sat down on the couch and thumbed through one, then the other, before looking up in astonishment and annoyance. “Damn it! They’re _different_! Your copy isn’t complete! How the hell…?”

 

“Jacoby,” John ventured. “Wasn’t he the detective in charge of this case?” He turned to regard Sherlock speculatively. “And I seem to recall you telling me that _he_ the one who gave you the file when the case went cold?”

 

“Ye-es,” Sherlock drawled. He walked over to Lestrade and pointed at the errant page he had tagged. “Who was the forensic technician who ran these tests?”

 

“Saruman,” Lestrade read. He looked up in realization. “He and Jacoby were thick as thieves before Jacoby moved up. You don’t think...”

 

“Well, _I_ don’t think, I _know_ ,” John shot back. Both men looked up in astonishment as John closed his laptop with a _snap_. “I just looked it up in my notes. Jacoby was the tech who mishandled evidence in one of Sherlock’s cases. Sherlock gave him what-for about it at the time, which caused him to be reprimanded by the department head.” 

 

The look on Sherlock’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t also been so very much in love. “John, you are _amazing_ sometimes. I had deleted that information since I requested that he not work on any more of our cases.”

 

“You made him look bad among his fellows,” John noted. “ _This_ could have been his revenge, and not just on _you_.” He turned his attention to Lestrade. “Didn’t you say he solved some crimes even the more seasoned detectives couldn’t solve?”

 

“Hey, that’s right!” Lestrade nodded. “He’s put their noses out of joint a couple of times now. Old guys couldn’t figure out how they missed it! Now, we know!” He shook his head. “Little bastard.”

 

“You will take care of this, won’t you...Gra...Greg?” Sherlock almost stumbled over the name.

 

“Sure, sure, not problem,” Lestrade said with a smile as he got up to leave. As he turned his back, John gave the OK sign to Sherlock about remembering Lestrade’s name. A fleeting smile crossed Sherlock’s lips and departed.

 

“So, what are you going to do, Greg?” John inquired.

 

Lestrade turned back at the door. “I’m going to confront the little bastard, that’s what. He thinks he can muck around with  _our_ cases? Insult  _our_ detectives? Not on my watch! And I’ll make sure that paper prints a retraction on the front page!” He nodded genially as he left.

 

John pushed out a sigh. “Glad that’s settled.” He looked up. “What?”

 

Sherlock loomed over him, his eyes boring down into John’s own. “You did this...for _me_.”

 

John shrugged. “Yeah, well, someone had to stop you from moping around and acting all stroppy...”

 

The taller man slid his arms around his smaller compatriot and pressed their lips together ardently. Not one to shrink from a challenge, John also wrapped _his_ arms around Sherlock and kissed back, equally ardently. When their lips finally, reluctantly parted, Sherlock murmured, “You’re amazing, incredible, fantastic...”

 

“Can I quote you on that, in there?” John said, as he jerked his head toward the bedroom. Sherlock grinned.

 

“Absolutely. Should we take the comforter with us?”

 

“Absolutely. Gets cold in there without it.”

 

“Not with _you_ in the bed.”  Sherlock teased.

 

“Yeah, I’m a regular furnace, aren’t I?”

 

“Good for cuddling.”

 

“Among other things.”

 

They grinned at each other as Sherlock bent down to retrieve the comforter and followed John into their bedroom. The door closed silently behind them.


End file.
